Chapter 23
The grove was different in twilight.
Marigold picked her way along the familiar path, the undergrowth rustling softly around her ankles.
She'd deliberately arrived early—partly because she'd been too restless to stay in her apartment any longer, and partly because she wanted a few minutes alone with the magic of this place before Thallos arrived.
The last light of day filtered through the canopy above, turning the air itself golden. Fireflies had begun their nightly dance, pinpricks of light drifting lazily between the ancient oaks. The scent of wild honeysuckle hung heavy in the stillness, sweet enough to taste on her tongue.
She stepped into the clearing and stopped, letting the atmosphere wash over her.
It was beautiful. Enchanted in the truest sense of the word.
The first time Thallos had brought her here, she'd been too nervous to appreciate it fully—too focused on the prospect of dancing with him, of being close to him, of making a fool of herself.
Now she could see what he'd been trying to show her.
This place was special. Sacred, maybe. The kind of place where the boundary between the mundane and the magical wore thin.
And here I am, she thought wryly, in my third-best sundress, about to dance with a satyr.
Life had taken some unexpected turns lately.
She wandered toward the center of the clearing, her fingers trailing across the trunk of a massive oak. The bark was warm beneath her touch, almost alive in a way ordinary trees weren't. A faint hum seemed to vibrate through the wood, like a heartbeat or a distant song.
"It responds to emotion, you know."
She spun around, her heart leaping into her throat.
A satyr stood at the edge of the clearing. Not Thallos—the silhouette was wrong, leaner and sharper-edged. But the curling horns and powerful goat legs were unmistakable even in the fading light.
"I'm sorry?"
He stepped forward, and the remaining daylight caught his features.
He was handsome in a precise, controlled way—dark hair neatly styled, angular face composed into an expression of polite interest. His eyes were darker than Thallos's, more calculated somehow.
Where Thallos radiated warmth and chaos, this satyr projected something cooler. More contained.
"The grove," he clarified, gesturing at the trees around them. "It amplifies whatever you're feeling. Joy, desire, fear…" A slight smile curved his lips. "One should be careful what emotions one brings to such a place."
"I… didn't realize anyone else would be here." Her hand dropped from the tree trunk. Something about this satyr made her want to step back, though she couldn't have explained why.
"Forgive me for startling you." He moved closer with that fluid grace all satyrs seemed to possess, his hooves making barely a sound on the soft earth. "You must be Marigold. The florist."
"That's right." She didn't offer her hand. "And you are?"
"Silas." He inclined his head in a gesture that felt more formal than friendly. "Thallos's brother."
Brother.
The word landed in her stomach like a stone. He had mentioned a brother. Once. But he’d clearly been reluctant to discuss him and she hadn’t pressed.
"He hasn’t told me about you," she said carefully.
"No?" Silas's smile widened, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "How like him. Thallos has always been… selective about what he shares."
The criticism was subtle, almost gentle. It still made her bristle.
"He has his reasons, I'm sure."
"Oh, certainly. My brother has reasons for everything.
" Silas clasped his hands behind his back, surveying the clearing as if cataloging its contents.
"He sent me ahead, by the way. Some small crisis at the vineyard—a supplier issue, I believe.
He asked that I extend his apologies and keep you company until he arrives. "
Relief and disappointment warred in her chest. He wasn't standing her up—that was good. But she'd been looking forward to this evening alone with him, and the presence of this unexpected brother had shifted everything off-balance.
"That's… thoughtful of him," she managed.
"Thallos can be thoughtful when it suits him." Silas turned those dark eyes on her, his gaze assessing in a way that made her skin prickle. "Though I suspect his motivations aren't entirely selfless. He speaks very highly of you."
"He does?"
"Quite highly." Another step closer. "The pretty florist who's captured my brother's attention. I confess I was curious. Thallos's taste in companions has been somewhat… inconsistent in the past."
The implication was clear. You're one in a long line. Nothing special.
Rachel's voice in the coffee shop. All those women who fall for Thallos…
She straightened her spine. She wasn't going to let this stranger—brother or not—rattle her.
"Well," she said coolly, "I suppose you'll have to draw your own conclusions."
Something flickered in Silas's expression. Surprise, maybe. Or recalculation. "Spirit. Good. You'll need that."
Before she could ask what that meant, he changed the subject entirely.
"Thallos mentioned you're learning the traditional opening dance for the festival."
"He's been teaching me, yes."
"Then perhaps I can be of assistance while we wait." Silas held out his hand, palm up, in obvious invitation. "Dancing with multiple partners is the best way to improve one's skills. Different heights, different rhythms—it forces you to adapt rather than simply following by rote."
She hesitated. Everything about this felt wrong. The unexplained brother. The convenient excuse for Thallos's absence. The too-smooth offer to "help."
But she couldn't articulate why she should refuse. He was Thallos's brother. He claimed Thallos had sent him. And his reasoning about dancing with different partners wasn't illogical—she'd heard the same advice about learning to lead and follow in any partner dance.
Maybe she was being paranoid. Maybe all her years of dealing with Daisy's drama had left her seeing manipulation everywhere.
"All right," she said slowly. "One dance."
His smile widened. "Excellent."
He took her hand and drew her toward the center of the clearing, positioning them in the standard hold she'd learned with Thallos.
But where Thallos's embrace felt like coming home, Silas's grip was…
wrong. His hands were in the correct places—one at her waist, one clasping her fingers—but the pressure was different. Controlling rather than guiding.
"Ready?"
She nodded, and they began to move.
There was no music, of course. But the grove itself seemed to provide a rhythm—the rustle of leaves, the chirp of crickets, the distant call of a night bird. Silas led her through the familiar steps, his movements precise and technically flawless.
And utterly devoid of warmth.
Dancing with Thallos felt like flying. Like being carried on a current of joy and desire and something deeper that she didn't have words for. Dancing with Silas felt like being steered. A tool being operated by a skilled hand.
"You're tense," he observed.
"I'm concentrating."
"Mm." His hand shifted slightly at her waist, fingers pressing more firmly into the curve of her hip. "Thallos always did prefer his partners compliant. It must be refreshing for him, having someone who actually pushes back."
The comment landed like a slap. She stumbled, missing a step, and Silas caught her smoothly—pulling her closer in the process.
"Careful." His breath was warm against her temple. Too close. "The roots here can be treacherous."
"I'm fine." She tried to create distance between them, but his hold had tightened imperceptibly. "Actually, I think I'd like to wait for Thallos after all."
"We've barely begun." He spun her out and back in again, faster than the rhythm required. She collided with his chest, momentarily winded. "Surely a few more minutes won't hurt?"
"I said I'd rather stop."
But he didn't release her. Instead, his hand slid lower on her back, settling into the curve of her spine in a way that felt possessive rather than supportive. His eyes held hers, and there was something predatory in their depths now. Something she'd been too polite to acknowledge before.
"My brother is a fortunate man," Silas murmured. "Though I suspect he doesn't fully appreciate what he has. He never does."
"Let me go."
"In a moment. I just wanted to—"
"She said let her go."
The voice cut through the clearing like a blade.
Thallos stood at the edge of the trees, his golden eyes blazing in the dim light. Every line of his body radiated fury—his shoulders squared, his hands clenched at his sides, his jaw set so tight it looked painful. Even his hooves seemed to dig into the earth with barely-contained violence.
She had never seen him like this. Not playful, not seductive, not even the controlled intensity she'd glimpsed during their more passionate moments. This was something else entirely.
This was rage.
"Brother." Silas released her at last, stepping back with unhurried grace. His expression remained maddeningly composed. "You're earlier than I expected."
"Get away from her."
"We were only dancing. You did send me to keep her company, after all."
"I sent you nothing." Thallos stalked forward, placing himself between her and his brother. "Your message said Tuesday. It's Sunday."
"I found myself with an unexpected opening in my schedule." Silas straightened his cuffs, the gesture deliberately casual. "And when I heard you had a… lady friend, I simply couldn't resist making her acquaintance."
"Marigold." Thallos didn't turn around, keeping his eyes fixed on Silas. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine." Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "He didn't hurt me."
"He shouldn't have touched you at all."
"Now, now." Silas's tone was light, almost teasing. "Is that any way to speak to family? I was simply being hospitable. Welcoming your latest conquest to the fold, as it were."
"Don't."